Saturday, July 20, 2013

The old wooden steps to the front door where I was sitting that fall morning when you came downstairs, just awake, and my joy at sight of you (emerging into golden day— the dew almost frost) pulled me to my feet to tell you how much I loved you:

those wooden steps are gone now, decayed replaced with granite, hard, gray, and handsome. The old steps live only in me: my feet and thighs remember them, and my hands still feel their splinters.

Everything else about and around that house brings memories of others—of marriage, of my son. And the steps do too: I recall sitting there with my friend and her little son who died, or was it the second one who lives and thrives? And sitting there ‘in my life,’ often, alone or with my husband. Yet that one instant, your cheerful, unafraid, youthful, ‘I love you too,’ the quiet broken by no bird, no cricket, gold leaves spinning in silence down without any breeze to blow them, is what twines itself in my head and body across those slabs of wood that were warm, ancient, and now wait somewhere to be burnt.